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Sunday, 23 August 2015

Misery.

Every day is the same. She has nothing to look forward to. The things she once enjoyed no longer hold any appeal. She hates getting out of bed in the mornings [afternoons] because each day is just another expanse of hours she no longer knows how to fill. There is no joy in her life. Sure she can smile and laugh on the surface, but that's as far as it goes. She is dead underneath.

She can't concentrate long enough to read. Before she can reach the end of page one the words dance before her eyes, rearranging themselves to spell out the constant chorus singing inside her head. Hypocrite, hypocrite, you're a hypocrite.

She can't sit still long enough to watch TV or watch a movie.

She workouts constantly in an effort to lower the volume of the noise inside her head, but it does little in way of relief.

She sees her friends and speaks to them every day, and she can pull it together for those brief hours and pretend to be a real girl with a whole and healed brain, but it does nothing to quell the storm inside her.

She can leave the house and go places and be normal but she's not normal and all this pretending to be a fully functional human is exhausting. She is exhausted all the time, but she can't even sleep.

She loves her dogs and she loves playing with them, but even that no longer helps. She does it for them. She does it because it's not their fault that their owner is a fucking lazy fat sack of shit.

She loves her mom and as far as her mom knows she is doing better, but she's not. She's not doing better. She's not doing okay. She is not okay at all.

She doesn't want this life.
She doesn't want her life.
She doesn't want life at all.

The closest she gets to happiness is when she steps on the scales each morning. She counts her ribs and rolls her fingers down the marbles of her spine before dragging the entire weight of her to the bathroom to measure her sins. She has three scales, lined up like soldiers. Judge, jury, executioner. Ultimately it doesn't matter what the number says. It's never low enough. Never. Even when it says she's smaller, the relief is incredibly short lived. Not three seconds go by before the tapeworm starts replicating inside her head. It could be lower it should be lower why isn't it lower why aren't you smaller you fucking fat sack of shit you should be better than this.

How is she meant to fix herself when she doesn't understand what is broken. How is she meant to fix herself when she wasn't whole to begin with. How is she meant to fix herself when the problem is rooted deep within her soul. The problem is fundamentally who she is. All of her is broken. She was born with missing pieces. She doesn't work. She is defective. Return to sender. Refunds are available on faulty stock. We're so sorry we sent you this shitty imitation of a real girl with a whole and healed brain. Please accept this refund along with a complementary set of steak knives, valued at $89.99.

She doesn't care about the past. The memories don't matter. The thoughts don't matter. The flashbacks don't matter. It happened and she let it and so crying about it now is self indulgent and sluttish and pathetic. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter and she doesn't matter. She doesn't she doesn't she doesn't.

She doesn't want this life. If she could, she would donate it to someone in need.

Although

She is an organ donor. She wonders if her undernourished elastic heart would be of any benefit to a person clinging to the final strings tethering them to life. They can have it. They can have all of it. All her organs. All of her.